


The Alluringly Obscene Aesthetics of Mortality

by ConsultingCommunist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Character, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingCommunist/pseuds/ConsultingCommunist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having faked his suicide, Sherlock Holmes finds, upon returning to London, that this wasn't enough to save the people that mattered most in his life. He'll have to change everything about himself to save them all again, as well as save himself, because one of them isn't what he used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alluringly Obscene Aesthetics of Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> As the title suggests, this is only the prologue to a chaptered fic that is a work in progress. There will not be extensive dialogue; this story will rely mainly on description, as it is an exercise in morbid aesthetics and word choice.
> 
> If you have ever read the book Hannibal Rising, you may recognize the approach I have taken to the mind palace in this particular fic. If not, then you should definitely take a look at it. There are some fantastic sections that go into detail about how Hannibal uses stained glass windows in his mind palace to hold medical diagrams and other things; it's fascinating, really.
> 
> Fun Fact: The entirety of this section was written while listening to "Doomsday" from the Doctor Who soundtrack.

Sherlock Holmes is a child again; he’s no more than twelve at the most, though he can’t properly tell. His curls are unruly, untamed the way they had always been in his boyhood, and his eyes are a pale blue-green colour. He wanders silently through the large building, gazing reverently at the magnificent structure and soaking in the solitude of the place. Grand arches and lavishly decorated rooms have always been the standard here, and he wishes he could remain within its comfort forever. But somewhere inside him he knows that he cannot. He knows that things must change.

A small but graceful hand reaches out to stroke the embossed wallpaper of the sitting room, the gold designs over a delicate ivory background speaking volumes of the fragile nature of this place. He built it so strong, made it impenetrable… His eyes travel up the surface as he laments on the possibility of its destruction today. He knows what is coming, what he has to do. He turns to look at the plush chairs and sofa, gazes longingly at the grand piano that he knows has the notes and scales stored in the keys just as the wallpaper he touches now has codes written into it. He hopes this room will survive, that he can salvage what beauty it holds.

He must remain in control; he must make the conscious choice to do this. It is not the whim of some celestial being that he will leave this renovation to, but rather to his own heart and hands, young as they are right now. Regardless of his body’s apparent age, he harbors within him the physical strength and ability of ten men or more, whatever he requires to complete this task. It can be done by him alone. He draws his hand back and departs from the sitting room, his feet guiding him through the structure. He passes the kitchen, the periodic table on the counter and formulas and compounds stored in the food and containers. He waltzes by the bedrooms, containing his knowledge of anatomy, and the library, holding his memories and the details of various crimes. He goes by each room and takes a brief moment to recall what he has stored in that particular one. 

Eventually, Sherlock comes to a closet and opens the door, examining the objects within. He picks out a rather large hammer, the type used in knocking down walls during remodeling; where he’s going next, he knows he’ll require it. After shutting the door, he heads to a long hallway with a dead end, the temperature significantly colder and cobwebs dominating the fixtures and corners where the eyes are afraid to look. He has not walked this hall in years, not since his physical body reflected the one he has taken on in his mind for this task. He passes each door, one by one. They grow older and more derelict as he moves closer to the end, and the final door to his right is almost completely rotted off of its hinges. 

He turns his head, looking into the room; it looks like a bedroom, but the curtains are tattered and the window shattered behind it as the chilled air blows through. The mattress is stained and old, the sheets ripped and pillows expelling the goose down feathers within as though it were coughing them up, the wind stirring them about every few moments. The movement catches his eyes, and they flit to the wood flooring, faded and scratched, missing even in some spots. After noticing the sad and broken toys strewn about, he looks away, not wanting to see any more of the pain in the objects, the way they’ve been ravaged by time.

As Sherlock shifts his focus to the wall in front of him, his pale eyes trace the cracks in it. He observes and takes stock of the surface, cataloging everything; this will be the last time he sees it. The paper is faded and peeling, falling off in strips over time. Bare, stained plaster lays beneath, and cracks cross it in a spider web formation, almost as if something has been trying to break out from behind it. He reaches a hand to gently trace along one of the lines, and he feels something warm and sticky on one finger. He pulls back, seeing a black smudge on the skin and looking to the wall in confusion. As he does, the cracks begin to ooze with the same black substance. The boy takes a step back in shock, watching as black liquid slowly drips down the wall, pooling at his feet. But Sherlock is not afraid; he feels no fear. Instead, he merely steps forward and into the puddle. He grips the hammer tightly in both of his small hands and pulls it back. 

He slams the hammer against the wall over and over, the sound echoing steadily like the deathly tolls of church bells throughout the empty palace. Sherlock can hear himself screaming as he breaks down the wall, but he can’t stop. The wall has to come down; he has to let it free. It isn’t until he drops the hammer and begins clawing at the hole with his hands that he realizes what he’s saying.

“I’m not my brother! I’m not my brother! I’m not my brother!” on repeat, like a looped track. He rips away chunks of plaster and wood, not feeling any pain even as the flesh tears down to the bone in some places. He works frantically, still screaming, until the hole is large enough to step through. 

Sherlock tumbles through the opening, his eyes and hair wild. He would seem to an outsider as though he was possessed, and perhaps he is: possessed by the need to make things right again and finish what he started three years ago. The screams have quieted to a dull murmuring, his body trembling while torn flesh hangs from his hands like ribbons. The area behind the wall is completely white and in perfect condition, preserved from time’s harsh influence. His crimson blood drips on the floor from his mangled hands, and he looks upon one final door before him. Reaching for the key he can feel in his pocket, he unlocks the door, somehow still able to use his hands and not feeling any of the pain that would come with such grievous injuries. He leaves a red smear on the white surface, the addition of colour to this barren landscape screaming to be noticed, demanding to be felt.

He is silent now, and he registers nothing behind the door but complete darkness once it’s pulled open. It begins to creep outward, flowing gracefully from the doorway like the tendrils of smoke from the cigarettes he had picked back up without John to stop him. They thicken, reaching and surrounding Sherlock. He can feel pressure on his lower back and his shoulder blades, and then a tugging sensation as the darkness pulls him forward and into its embrace. Just as his eyes close, he feels the warmth permeate his chest. It gets hotter and hotter, and he screams again as it grips his heart, squeezing the muscle with such force that he feels like he’s going to fold in on himself. 

A new smoky tendril caresses Sherlock’s cheek, and he is no longer a child, but an adult with shredded hands and a crushed heart. He leans into the touch with a look of desperation on his face, the pain making him feel more alive than he has in years. He can hear the sounds of glass shattering and things being torn down, smashing, breaking, ripping, and he knows the darkness is running free. He feeds it the blueprints through his heart, and the wisps of shadow change the palace according to them. They seal off rooms, re-open others, move entire sections of architecture and change the colours of the walls. He knows he will not recognize the place once it is finished, but he will learn to love it all the same. It will be his new home, his new mindset, and his new code. His heart is finally merging with his brain, for better or for worse. As Sherlock feels himself being swallowed by the darkness, he exhales shakily, bidding one last farewell to the place his mind had called home for thirty-three years. 

\-------------

The next time Sherlock opens his eyes, he gazes at the ceiling in his bedroom- now _their_ bedroom- as he feels lips kiss at his neck softly. A familiar voice murmurs a ‘good morning, love’ in his ear, and Sherlock’s lips quirk up into a slight grin, his mind settled in its new layout. He turns, his pale eyes staring into blue ones brimming with madness.

“Good morning, John.”


End file.
